1 


ABE  LINCOLN  AND 
NANCY  HANKS 


Being  one  of  Elbert  Hubbard's  famous  Little  Jour- 
neys, to  which  is  added  for  full  measure  a 
Tribute  to  the  Mother  of  Lincoln 

'I'HE  ROYCROFTERS,  EAST  AURORA,  NEW  YORK 


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l^S^s^ 


g^irsWi 


LINCOLN  ROOM 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


1 


se£ 


^  9^  4^  «^  «^  «^  9^  «^  «^  «^  «^  «^  «Ar  «^  ^ 

^<~  ABE  LINCOLN 

'^*~  ami 

%Z  NANCY  HANKS 


^  **  BEING  ONE  OF  ELBERT 

^<"  HUBBARD'S  FAMOUS 

JL^^..  LITTLE  JOURNEYS 


To  which  is  added  for  full  measure 


of  Lincoln 


«^<-  a  Tribute  to  the  Mother 


THE     ROYCROFTERS 
EAST    AURORA,    NEW    YORK 


♦3- 


j^  4|»  4^  4^  J^  J^  4^  «|»  4^  4^  4^  jj»  «f»  j|»  )^ 


Copyright,  1920 
By  The  Roycrofters 


"Witi  malice  toward  none;  with 
charity  for  all ;  with  nrmness  in  the 
right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the 
right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish 
the  work  we  are  in:  to  bind  up  the 
nation's  wounds;  to  care  for  him 
who  has  borne  the  battle,  and  for 
his  widow  and  orphan — ^to  do  all 
which  may  achieve  and  cherish 
a  just  and  lasting  peace  among 
ourselves,  and   with  all  nations." 


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ABE  LINCOLN 
AND  NANCY  HANKS 


^  9^  4^  sjr  4^  9^  9^  «^  9^  9^  9|r  4^  4^  «{r  4r 

NANCY  HANKS 

MOTHER   OF   LINCOLN 

|N  Spencer  County,  about  forty 
miles  Northeast  of  Evansville, 
and  one  hundred  fifty  miles 
from  Louisville  is  Lincoln 
City,  Indiana.  There  was  no  town 
there  in  the  days  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 
The  ''  city  "  sprang  into  existence  with 
the  coming  of  the  railroad,  only  a  few 
years  ago.  The  word  **  city "  was 
anticipatory  5^  5<^ 

The  place  is  a  hamlet  of  barely  a  dozen 
houses.  There  is  a  general  store,  a 
blacksmith -shop,  the  railroad -station, 
and  a  very  good  school  to  which  the 
youth  come  from  miles  around. 
The  occasion  of  my  visit  was  the  an- 
nual meeting  of  the  Indiana  Editors' 
Association  &^  s^ 

A  special  train  had  been  provided  us 
by  the  courtesy  of  the  Southern  Rail- 

4  9}>- 


way.  There  were  about  two  hundred 
people  in  the  party. 
At  Nancy  Hanks  Park  we  were  met  by 
several  hundred  farmers  and  their 
families,  some  of  whom  had  come  for 
twenty-five  miles  and  more  to  attend 
the  exercises. 

As  I  sat  on  the  platform  and  looked 
into  the  tanned,  earnest  faces  of  these 
people,  I  realized  the  truth  of  that 
remark  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  "  The 
chosen  people  of  God  are  those  who  till 
the  soil." 

These  are  the  people  who  have  ever 
fought  freedom's  fight.  And  the  children 
of  such  as  these  are  often  the  men  who 
go  up  to  the  cities  and  take  them 
captive.  In  the  cities  the  poor  imitate 
the  follies  and  foibles  of  the  rich  to  the 
extent  of  their  ability. 
But  here,  far  away  from  the  big  towns 
and  cities,  we  get  a  type  of  men  and 
women  such  as  Lincoln  knew.  They 
had  come  with  the  children,  brought 
their  lunch  in  baskets,  and  were  making 
a  day  of  it. 

-4  10  lis- 


We  formed  in  line  by  twos  and  ascended 
the  little  hill  where  the  mother  of 
Lincoln  sleeps.  On  the  simple  little 
granite  column  are  the  words: 

NANCY  HANKS  LINCOLN 

MOTHER  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Died  October  5,  1818 

Aged  35  Years 

Instinctively  we  uncovered. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken. 
An  old  woman,  bowed,  bronzed,  with 
furrowed  face,  approached.  She  wore  a 
blue  sunbonnet,  a  calico  dress,  a  check 
apron.  The  apron  was  full  of  flowers. 
CL  The    old    woman    pushed    through 
the  little  group  and  emptied  her  wild 
flowers  on  the  grave. 
No   words   of  studied    oratory   could 
have  been  as  eloquent. 
A  woman  was  paying  tribute  to  the 
woman   who   gave   to  the   world   the 
mightiest  man  America  has  produced! 
€L  And   this  old   woman  might  have 
been  kin  to  the  woman  to  whose  resting- 
place  we  had  journeyed. 

<{  11  J=~ 


A  misty  something  came  over  my  eye- 
sight, and  through  my  mind  ran  a 
vision  of  Nancy  Hanks. 
"  Died  aged  35,"  runs  the  inscription. 
i[  The  family  had  come  from  Ken- 
tucky, only  a  half-day's  journey  distant 
as  we  count  miles  today  by  steam  and 
trolley  &^  &^ 

But  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventeen  it 
took  the  little  cavalcade  a  month  to 
come  from  LaRue  County,  Kentucky, 
to  Spencer  County,  Indiana,  sixteen 
miles  as  the  birds  fly,  North  of  the 
Ohio  River. 

Here,  land  was  to  be  had  for  the  set- 
tling. For  ten  miles  North  from  the 
Ohio  the  soil  is  black  and  fertile. 
Then  you  reach  the  hills,  or  what  the 
early  settlers  called  "  the  barrens." 
The  soil  here  is  yellow,  the  land  rolling. 
C  It  is  picturesque  beyond  compare, 
beautiful  as  a  poet's  dream,  but  tickle 
it  as  you  will  with  a  hoe  it  will  not 
laugh  a  harvest. 

At  the  best  it  will  only  grimly  grin  »^ 
It  is  a  country  of  timber   and   toil. 

■4  12  Ii=- 


C  Valuable  hardwoods  abound — oak, 
walnut,  ash,  hickory. 
Springs  flowing  from  the  hills  are  plen- 
tiful, wild  flowers  grow  in  profusion, 
the  trees  are  vocal  with  song  and  birds, 
but  the  ground  is  stony  and  stubborn. 

HERE  the  family  rested  by  the  side 
of  the  cold,  sparkling  stream. 
Across  the  valley  to  the  West  the  hills 
arose,  grand,  somber,  majestic. 
Down  below  a  stream  went  dancing  its 
way  to  the  sea. 

And  near  by  were  rushes  and  little 
patches  of  grass,  where  the  tired  horses 
nibbled  in  gratitude. 
And  so  they  rested.  There  were  Thomas 
Lincoln;  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln,  his 
wife;  Sarah  Lincoln,  aged  ten;  and 
little  Abe  Lincoln,  aged  eight. 
The  family  had  four  horses,  old  and 
lame.  In  the  wagon  were  a  few  house- 
hold goods,  two  sacks  of  cornmeal,  a 
side  of  bacon. 

Instead  of  pushing  on  Westward  the 
family  decided  to  remain.  They  built 

4  13  Ii=- 


a  shack  from  logs,  closed  on  three 
sides,  open  to  the  South. 
The  reason  the  South  side  was  left 
open  was  because  there  was  no  chim- 
ney, and  the  fire  they  built  was  half  in 
the  home  and  half  outside.  Here  the 
family  lived  that  first  bleak,  dreary 
Winter.  To  Abe  and  Sarah  it  was  only 
fun.  But  to  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln,  who 
was  delicate,  illy  clothed,  underfed, 
and  who  had  known  better  things  in 
her  Kentucky  home,  it  was  hardship. 
€[  She  was  a  woman  of  aspiration  and 
purpose,  a  woman  with  romance  and 
dreams  in  her  heart.  Now  all  had  turned 
to  ashes  of  roses.  Children,  those  little 
bold  explorers  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
accept  everything  just  as  a  matter  of 
course  5«»  s^ 

Abe  wrote,  long  years  afterward:  "  My 
mother  worked  steadily  and  without 
complaining.  She  cooked,  made  cloth- 
ing, planted  a  little  garden.  She  coughed 
at  times,  and  often  would  have  to  lie 
down  for  a  little  while.  We  did  not 
know  she  was  ill.  She  was  worn,  yellow 

'4  14  >• 


and  sad.  One  day  when  she  was  lying 
down  she  motioned  me  to  come  near. 
And  when  I  stood  by  the  bed  she 
reached  out  one  hand  as  if  to  embrace 
me,  and  pointing  to  my  sister  Sarah 
said  in  a  whisper,  *  Be  good  to  her, 
Abe!'  "  ^^ 

The  tired  woman  closed  her  eyes,  and 
it  was  several  hours  before  the  children 
knew  she  was  dead. 
The  next  day  Thomas  Lincoln  made  a 
coffin  of  split  boards.  The  body  of  the 
dead  woman  was  placed  in  the  rude 
coffin.  And  then  four  men  carried  the 
coffin  up  to  the  top  of  a  little  hill  near 
by  and  it  was  lowered  into  a  grave  &^ 
A  mound  of  rocks  was  piled  on  top, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  times, 
to  protect  the  grave  from  wild  animals. 
€1  Little  Abe  and  Sarah  went  down  the 
hill,  dazed  and  undone,  clinging  to 
each  other  in  their  grief. 
But  there  was  work  to  do,  and  Sarah 
was  the  "  little  other  mother." 


-4  15  J=" 


FOR  a  year  she  cooked,  scrubbed, 
patched  the  clothing,  and  looked 
after  the  household.  Then  one  day 
Thomas  Lincoln  went  away,  and  left 
the  two  children  alone.  He  was  gone 
for  a  week,  but  when  he  came  back  he 
brought  the  children  a  stepmother — 
Sally  Bush  Johnston.  This  widow 
who  was  now  Mrs.  Thomas  Lincoln 
had  three  children  of  her  own,  but 
she  possessed  enough  love  for  two  more. 
Her  heart  went  out  to  little  Abe,  and 
his  lonely  heart  responded. 
She  brought  provisions,  dishes,  cloth 
for  clothing,  needles  to  sew  with,  scis- 
sors to  cut.  She  was  a  good  cook.  And 
best  of  all  she  had  three  books. 
Up  to  this  time  Abe  had  never  worn 
shoes  or  cap.  She  made  him  moccasins, 
and  also  a  coonskin  cap,  with  a  dan- 
gling tail.  She  taught  Abe  and  Sarah  to 
read,  their  own  mother  having  taught 
them  the  alphabet.  She  told  them  stories 
— stories  of  George  Washington  and 
Thomas  Jefferson.  She  told  them  of  the 
great  outside  world  of  towns  and  cities 

■4  16  >■ 


where  many  people  lived.  She  told  them 
of  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  and  of  the 
Government  of  tne  United  States. 
And  they  learned  to  repeat  the  names 
of  these  States,  and  write  the  names 
out  with  a  burnt  stick  on  a  slab. 
And  Little  Abe  Lincoln  and  his  sister 
Sarah  were  very  happy. 
Their   hearts   were   full    of  love   and 
gratitude  for  their  New  Mother,  and 
they  sometimes  wondered  if  anywhere 
in  the  wide  world  there  were  little  boys 
and  girls  who  had  as  much  as  they  5«» 
"  All   I   am,    and   all  I  hope  to  be,  I 
owe   to   my   darling   mother!"   wrote 
Abraham  Lincoln  years  later. 
And  it  is  good  to  know  that  Sarah 
Bush   Lincoln   lived    to   see   the   boy 
evolve  into  the  greatest  man  in  Amer- 
ica. She  survived  him  four  years. 
Here  Abe  Lincoln  lived  until  he  was 
twenty-one,  imtil  he  had  attained  his 
height  of  six  feet  four.    He  had  read 
every  book  in  the  neighborhood. 
He   had    even   tramped    through   the 
forest  twenty  miles,  to  come  back  with 

•4  17  J=- 


a  borrowed  volume,  which  he  had  read 
to  his  mother  by  the  light  of  a  pine- 
knot  &f^  s^ 

He  had  clerked  in  the  store  down  at 
"  The  Forks,"  at  Gentryville. 
He  had  whipped  the  local  bully — and 
asked  his  pardon  for  doing  so. 
He  had  spelled  down  the  school  and 
taken  parts  in  debates. 
He  could   split  more   rails  than   any 
other  man  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  had  read  the  Bible,  the  Revised 
Statutes  of  Indiana,  and  could  repeat 
Poor  Richard's  Almanac  backward  &^ 
He  was  a  natural  leader — the  strong- 
est, sanest,  kindest  and  truest  young 
man  in  the  neighborhood. 

WHEN  Abe  was  twenty-one,  the 
family  decided  to  move  West. 
There  were  four  ox-carts  in  all. 
One  of  these  carts  was  driven  by  Abra- 
ham Lincoln. 

But  before  they  started,  Abe  cut  the 
initials  N.  H.  L.  on  a  slab  and  placed 
it  securely  at  the  head  of  the  grave 

.  -4  18  l!=- 


of  his  mother — the  mother  who  had 
given  him  birth. 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy-six 
James  Studebaker  of  South  Bend 
bought  a  marble  headstone  and  placed 
it  on  the  grave.  Mr.  Studebaker  also 
built  a  picket-fence  around  the  grave, 
and  paid  the  owner  of  the  property  a 
yearly  sum  for  seeing  that  the  grave 
was  protected,  and  that  visitors  were 
allowed  free  access  to  the  spot. 
In  Nineteen  Hundred  Five  certain 
citizens  of  Indiana  bought  the  hilltop, 
a  beautiful  grove  of  thirty  acres,  and 
this  property  is  now  the  possession  of 
the  State,  forever.  A  guardian  lives 
here  who  keeps  the  property  in  good 
condition  5^  &i^ 

A  chapel,  roofed,  but  open  on  all  sides, 
has  been  built,  the  trees  are  trimmed, 
the  underbrush  removed  &9^  Winding 
walks  and  well-kept  roadways  are  to 
be  seen.  The  park  is  open  to  the  public. 
Visitors  come,  some  of  them  great  and 
learned  S4^  S4> 
And  now  and  again  comes  some  old 

-4  19  >:• 


woman,  tired,  worn,  knowing  some- 
what of  the  history  of  Nancy  Hanks, 
and  all  she  endured  and  suffered,  and 
places  on  the  mound  a  bouquet  gather- 
ed down  in  the  meadows. 
And  here  alone  on  the  hilltop  sleeps  the 
woman  who  went  down  into  the  shadow 
and  gave  him  birth. 
Biting  poverty  was  her  portion;  de- 
privation and  loneliness  were  her  lot. 
But  on  her  tomb  are  four  words  that 
express  the  highest  praise  that  tongue 
can  utter,  or  pen  indite: 

MOTHER 

OF 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


4  20  J=- 


^  «^  «^  «^  «^  4^  «^  «^  «^  «^  «^  v^r  «^  «^  iV 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

|HE  world  will  little  note  nor 
long  remember,  what  we  say 
here,  but  it  can  never  forget 
what  they  did  here.  It  is  for 
us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated 
here  to  the  unfinished  work  which  they 
who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly 
advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here 
dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining 
before  us — that  from  these  honored 
dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to 
that  cause  for  which  they  gave  the 
last  full  measure  of  devotion;  that  we 
here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead 
shall  not  have  died  in  vain;  that  this 
nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new 
birth  of  freedom;  and  that  govern- 
ment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for 
the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth. — Lincoln's   Gettysburg   Speech, 

•<  21  J> 


No,  dearie,  I  do  not  think  my 
childhood  differed  much  from  that 
of  other  good  healthy  country  young- 
sters. I  've  heard  folks  say  that  childhood 
has  its  sorrows  and  all  that,  but  the 
sorrows  of  country  children  do  not  last 
long.  The  young  rustic  goes  out  and 
tells  his  troubles  to  the  birds  and 
flowers,  and  the  flowers  nod  in  recogni- 
tion, and  the  robin  that  sings  from  the 
top  of  a  tall  poplar -tree  when  the  sun 
goes  down  says  plainly  it  has  sorrows 
of  its  own — and  understands. 
I  feel  a  pity  for  all  those  folks  who 
were  bom  in  a  big  city,  and  thus  got 
cheated  out  of  their  childhood.  Zealous 
ash-box  inspectors  in  gilt  braid,  prying 
policemen  with  clubs,  and  signs  reading, 
"  Keep  Off  the  Grass,"  are  woful  things 
to  greet  the  gaze  of  little  souls  fresh 
from  God. 

Last  Summer  six  "  Fresh  Airs  "  were 
sent  out  to  my  farm,  from  the  Eighth 
Ward.  Half  an  hour  after  their  arrival, 
one  of  them,  a  little  girl  five  years  old, 
who  had  constituted  herself  mother  of 

-4  22  >" 


the  party,  came  rushing  into  the  house 
exclaiming,  "  Say,  Mister,  Jimmy  Dris- 
coll  he  's  walkin'  on  de  grass!  " 
I  well  remember  the  first  Keep-Off-the- 
Grass  sign  I  ever  saw.  It  was  in  a 
printed  book;  it  was  n't  exactly  a  sign, 
only  a  picture  of  a  sign,  and  the  single 
excuse  I  could  think  of  for  such  a 
notice  was  that  the  field  was  full  of 
bumblebee  nests,  and  the  owner,  being 
a  good  man  and  kind,  did  not  want 
barefoot  boys  to  add  bee-stings  to 
stone-bruises.  And  I  never  now  see  one 
of  those  signs  but  that  I  glance  at  my 
feet  to  make  sure  that  I  have  shoes  on. 
il  Given  the  liberty  of  the  country,  the 
child  is  very  near  to  Nature's  heart ;  he 
is  brother  to  the  tree  and  calls  all  the 
dumb,  growing  things  by  name.  He  is 
sublimely  superstitious.  His  imagina- 
tion, as  yet  untouched  by  disillusion, 
makes  good  all  that  earth  lacks,  and 
habited  in  a  healthy  body  the  soul 
sings  and  soars. 

In  childhood,  magic  and  mystery  lie 
close  around  us.  The  world  in  which  we 

-4  23  \> 


live  is  a  panorama  of  constantly  un- 
folding delights,  our  faith  in  the  Un- 
known is  limitless,  and  the  words  of 
Job,  uttered  in  mankind's  morning, 
fit  our  wondering  mood :  **  He  stretcheth 
out  the  North  over  the  empty  place, 
and  hangeth  the  earth  upon  nothing." 
CL  I  am  old,  dearie,  very  old.  In  my 
childhood  much  of  the  State  of  Illinois 
was  a  prairie,  where  wild  grass  waved 
and  bowed  before  the  breeze,  like  the 
tide  of  a  Summer  sea.  I  remember  when 
'*  relatives  "  rode  miles  and  miles  in 
springless  farm-wagons  to  visit  cousins, 
taking  the  whole  family  and  staying 
two  nights  and  a  day;  when  books 
were  things  to  be  read ;  when  the  beaver 
and  the  buffalo  were  not  extinct;  when 
wild  pigeons  came  in  clouds  that 
shadowed  the  sun;  when  steamboats 
ran  on  the  Sangamon;  when  Bishop 
Simpson  preached;  when  Hell  was  a 
place,  not  a  theory,  and  Heaven  a 
locality  whose  fortunate  inhabitants 
had  no  work  to  do;  when  Chicago  news- 
papers   were    ten    cents    each;    when 

-tj  24  >> 


cotton  cloth  was  fifty  cents  a  yard,  and 
my  shirt  was  made  from  a  flour-sack, 
with  the  legend,  "  Extra  XXX,"  across 
my  proud  bosom,  and  just  below  the 
words  in  flaming  red,  '*  Warranted 
Fifty  Pounds!" 

The  mornings  usually  opened  with 
smothered  protests  against  getting  up, 
for  country  folks  then  were  extremists 
in  the  matter  of  "  early  to  bed,  early 
to  rise,  makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy 
and  wise."  We  had  n't  much  wealth, 
nor  were  we  very  wise,  but  we  had 
health  to  bum.  But  aside  from  the  un- 
pleasantness of  early  morning,  the  day 
was  full  of  possibilities  of  curious  things 
to  be  found  in  the  barn  and  under 
spreading  gooseberry  bushes,  or  if  it 
rained,  the  garret  was  an  Alsatia  un- 
explored. The  evolution  of  the  individual 
mirrors  the  evolution  of  the  race.  In  the 
morning  of  the  world  man  was  innocent 
and  free;  but  when  self-consciousness 
crept  in  and  he  possessed  himself  of  that 
disturbing  motto,  "  Know  Thyself,"  he 
took  a  fall. 

-4  25  Ii=" 


Yet  knovv^ledge  usually  comes  to  us 
with  a  shock,  just  as  the  mixture 
crystallizes  when  the  chemist  gives  the 
jar  a  tap.  We  grow  by  throes. 
I  well  rem.ember  the  day  when  I  was 
put  out  of  my  Eden. 
My  father  and  mother  had  gone  away 
in  the  one-horse  wagon,  taking  the  baby 
with  them,  leaving  me  in  care  of  my 
elder  sister.  It  was  a  stormy  day  and 
the  air  was  full  of  fog  and  mist.  It  did 
not  rain  very  much,  only  in  gusts,  but 
great  leaden  clouds  chased  each  other 
angrily  across  the  sky.  It  was  very 
quiet  there  in  the  little  house  on  the 
prairie,  except  when  the  wind  came  and 
shook  the  windows  and  rattled  at  the 
doors.  The  morning  seemed  to  drag 
and  would  n't  pass,  just  out  of  contra- 
riness ;  and  I  wanted  it  to  go  fast  because 
in  the  afternoon  my  sister  was  to  take 
me  somewhere,  but  where  I  did  not 
know,  but  that  we  should  go  somewhere 
was  promised  again  and  again. 
As  the  day  wore  on  and  we  went  up 
into  the  little  garret  and  strained  our 

•4  26  }fl- 


eyes  across  the  stretching  prairie  to  see 

if  some  one  was  coming.   There  had 

been  much  rain,  for  on  the  prairie  there 

was  always  too  much  rain  or  else  too 

little.  It  was  either  drought  or  flood. 

Dark  swarms  of  wild  ducks  were  in  all 

the  ponds ;  V-shaped  flocks  of  geese  and 

brants  screamed  overhead,  and  down 

in  the  slough  cranes  danced  a  solemn 

minuet  5«»  s<^ 

Again   and   again   we   looked   for   the 

coming  something,  and  I  began  to  cry, 

fearing  we  had  been  left  there,  forgotten 

of  Fate. 

At  last  we  went  out  by  the  bam  and, 

with  much  boosting,  I  climbed  to  the 

top   of  the   haystack   and    my   sister 

followed.  And  still  we  watched. 

"  There   they   come!"   exclaimed    my 

sister  s^  5a» 

*'  There  they   come!"    I   echoed,  and 

clapped   two  red,   chapped   hands  for 

joy  5^  5^ 

Away   across   the   prairie,    miles   and 

miles  away,  was  a  winding  string  of 

wagons,   a  dozen   perhaps,   one   right 

4  27  !=•• 


behind  another.  We  watched  until  we 
could  make  out  our  own  white  horse, 
Bob,  and  then  we  slid  down  the  hickory- 
pole  that  leaned  against  the  stack,  and 
made  our  way  across  the  spongy  sod 
to  the  burying-ground  that  stood  on  a 
knoll  half  a  mile  away. 
We  got  there  before  the  procession,  and 
saw  a  great  hole,  with  square  corners, 
dug  in  the  ground.  It  was  half-full  of 
water,  and  a  man  in  bare  feet,  with 
trousers  rolled  to  his  knees,  was  work- 
ing industriously  to  bale  it  out. 
The  wagons  drove  up  and  stopped.  And 
out  of  one  of  them  four  men  lifted  a 
long  box  and  set  it  down  beside  the  hole 
where  the  man  still  baled  and  dipped. 
The  box  was  opened  and  in  it  was  Si 
Johnson.  Si  lay  very  still,  and  his  face 
was  very  blue,  and  his  clothes  were  very 
black,  save  for  his  shirt,  which  was  very 
white,  and  his  hands  were  folded  across 
his  breast,  just  so,  and  held  awkwardly 
in  the  stiff  fingers  was  a  little  New 
Testament.  We  all  looked  at  the  blue 
face,  and  the  women  cried  softly.  The 

"4  28  l!=- 


men  took  off  their  hats  while  the 
preacher  prayed,  and  then  we  sang, 
"  There  '11  be  no  more  parting  there." 
€[  The  lid  of  the  box  was  nailed  down, 
lines  were  taken  from  the  harness  of 
one  of  the  teams  standing  by  and  were 
placed  around  the  long  box,  and  it  was 
lowered  with  a  splash  into  the  hole. 
Then  several  men  seized  spades  and 
the  clods  fell  with  clatter  and  echo. 
The  men  shoveled  very  hard,  filling  up 
the  hole,  and  when  it  was  full  and  heap- 
ed up,  they  patted  it  all  over  with  the 
backs  of  their  spades.  Everybody  re- 
mained until  this  was  done,  and  then 
we  got  into  the  wagons  and  drove 
away  sa^  &^ 

Nearly  a  dozen  of  the  folks  came  over 
to  our  house  for  dinner,  including  the 
preacher,  and  they  all  talked  of  the 
man  who  was  dead  and  how  he  came 
to  die  so»  s^ 

Only  two  days  before,  this  man,  Si 
Johnson,  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his 
house  and  looked  out  at  the  falling 
rain.  It  had  rained  for  three  days,  so 

•4  29  lis- 


they  could  not  plow,  and  Si  was 
angry.  Besides  this,  his  two  brothers 
had  enlisted  and  gone  away  to  the  War 
and  left  him  all  the  work  to  do.  He  did 
not  go  to  the  War  because  he  was  a 
"  Copperhead;"  and  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  doorway  looking  at  the  rain,  he 
took  a  chew  of  tobacco,  then  he  swore 
a  terrible  oath. 

And  ere  the  swear-words  had  escaped 
from  his  lips,   there  came  a  blinding 
flash  of  lightning,  and  the  man  fell  all 
in  a  heap  like  a  sack  of  oats. 
And  he  was  dead. 

Whether  he  died  because  he  was  a 
Copperhead,  or  because  he  took  a  chew 
of  tobacco,  or  because  he  swore,  I 
could  not  exactly  understand.  I  waited 
for  a  convenient  lull  in  the  conversation 
and  asked  the  preacher  why  the  man 
died,  and  he  patted  me  on  the  head  and 
told  me  it  was  "  the  vengeance  of 
God,"  and  that  he  hoped  I  would  grow 
up  and  be  a  good  man  and  never  chew 
nor  swear.  The  preacher  is  alive  now. 
He  is  an  old,  old  man  with  long,  white 

<l  30  >• 


whiskers,  and  I  never  see  him  but  that 
I  am  tempted  to  ask  for  the  exact 
truth  as  to  why  Si  Johnson  was  struck 
by  lightning. 

Yet  I  suppose  it  was  because  he  was  a 
Copperhead:  all  Copperheads  chewed 
tobacco  and  swore,  and  that  his  fate 
was  merited  no  one  but  the  living  Cop- 
perheads in  that  community  doubted. 
C  That  was  an  eventful  day  to  me. 
Like  men  whose  hair  turns  from  black 
to  gray  in  a  night,  I  had  left  babyhood 
behind  at  a  bound,  and  the  problems 
of  the  world  were  upon  me,  clamoring 
for  solution. 

THERE  was  war  in  the  land.  When 
it  began  I  did  not  know,  but  that 
it  was  something  terrible  I  could  guess. 
I  thought  of  it  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
and  dreamed  of  it  at  night.  Many 
men  had  gone  away ;  and  every  day  men 
in  blue  straggled  by,  all  going  South, 
forever  South. 

And  all  the  men  straggling  along  that 
road  stopped  to  get  a  drink  at  our 

■4  31  >• 


well,  drawing  t±ie  water  with  the  sweep, 
and  drinking  out  of  the  bucket,  and 
squirting  a  mouthful  of  water  over 
each  other.  They  looked  at  my  father's 
creaking  doctor's  sign,  and  sang,  "  Old 
Mother  Hubbard,  she  went  to  the 
cupboard."  .^^  &^ 

They  all  sang  that.  They  were  very 
jolly,  just  as  though  they  were  going 
to  a  picnic.  Some  of  them  came  back 
that  way  a  few  years  later  and  they 
were  not  so  joll3^  And  some  there  were 
who  never  came  back  at  all. 
Freight-trains  passed  Southward,  blue 
with  men  in  the  cars,  and  on  top  of  the 
cars,  and  in  the  caboose,  and  on  the 
cowcatcher,  always  going  South  and 
never  North.  For  "  Down  South  " 
were  many  Rebels,  and  all  along  the 
way  South  were  Copperheads,  and  they 
all  wanted  to  come  North  and  kill  us, 
so  soldiers  had  to  go  down  there  and 
fight  them.  And  I  marveled  much  that 
if  God  hated  Copperheads,  as  our 
preacher  said  He  did,  why  He  did  n't 
send  lightning  and  kill  them,  just  in  a 

-4  32  )=- 


second,   as  He  had  Si  Johnson.  And 

then  all  that  would  have  to  be  done 
would  be  to  send  for  a  doctor  to  see 
that  they  were  surely  dead,  and  a 
preacher  to  pray,  and  the  neighbors 
would  dress  them  in  their  best  Sunday 
suits  of  black,  folding  their  hands  very 
carefully  across  their  breasts,  then  we 
would  bury  them  deep,  filing  in  the 
dirt  and  heaping  it  up.  patting  it  all 
doun  ven,'  carefully  v-ith  the  back  of 
a  spade,  and  then  go  away  and  leave 
them  until  Judgment  Day. 
Copperheads  were  simply  m^en  who 
hated  Lincoln.  The  nam.e  came  from 
copperhead -snakes,  which  are  worse 
than  rattlers,  for  rattlers  rattle  and 
give  warning.  A  rattler  is  an  open 
enemy,  but  you  never  know  that  a 
copperhead  is  around  until  he  strikes. 
He  lies  low  in  the  swale  and  watches 
his  chance.  '*  He  is  the  worstest  snake 
that  am." 

It  was  Abe  Lincoln  of  Springfield  who 
was  fighting  the  Rebels  that  were  try- 
ing to  ^^Teck  the  country  and  spread 

-}  33  1- 


red  ruin.  The  Copperheads  were  wicked 
folks  at  the  North  who  sided  with  the 
Rebels.  Society  was  divided  into  two 
classes:  those  who  favored  Abe  Lin- 
coln, and  those  who  told  lies  about  him. 
All  the  people  I  knew  and  loved,  loved 
Abe  Lincoln. 

I  was  bom  at  Bloomington,  Illinois, 
through  no  choosing  of  my  own,  and 
Bloomington  is  further  famous  for 
being  the  birthplace  of  the  Republican 
party.  When  a  year  old  I  persuaded 
my  parents  to  move  seven  miles  North 
to  the  village  of  Hudson,  that  then  had 
five  houses,  a  church,  a  store  and  a 
blacksmith-shop.  Many  of  the  people 
I  knew,  knew  Lincoln,  for  he  used  to 
come  to  Bloomington  several  times  a 
year  "  on  the  circuit  "  to  try  cases, 
and  at  various  times  made  speeches 
there.  When  he  came  he  would  tell 
stories  at  the  Ashley  House,  and  when 
he  was  gone  these  stories  would  be 
repeated  by  everybody.  Some  of  these 
stories  must  have  been  peculiar,  for  I 
once   heard    my   mother   caution   my 

■4  34  \>- 


father  not  to  tell  any  more  "  Lincoln 
stories  "  at  the  dinner-table  when  we 
had  company.  And  once  Lincoln  gave 
a  lecture  at  the  Presbyterian  Church 
on  the  **  Progress  of  Man,"  when  no 
one  was  there  but  the  preacher,  my 
Aunt  Hannah  and  the  sexton. 
My  Uncle  Elihu  and  Aunt  Hannah 
knew  Abe  Lincoln  well.  So  did  Jesse 
Fell,  James  C.  Conklin,  Judge  Davis, 
General  Orme,  Leonard  Swett,  Dick 
Yates  and  lots  of  others  I  knew.  They 
never  called  him  "  Mister  Lincoln," 
but  it  was  always  Abe  or  Old  Abe,  or 
just  plain  Abe  Lincoln.  In  that  newly 
settled  country  you  always  called  folks 
by  their  first  names,  especially  when 
you  liked  them.  And  when  they  spoke 
the  name,  **  Abe  Lincoln,"  there  was 
something  in  the  voice  that  told  of 
confidence,  respect  and  affection. 
Once  when  I  was  at  my  Aunt  Hannah's, 
Judge  Davis  was  there  and  I  sat  on  his 
lap.  The  only  thing  about  the  inter- 
view I  remember  was  that  he  really 
did  n't  have  any  lap  to  speak  of. 

■4  35  Ii=- 


After  Judge  Davis  had  gone,  Aunt 
Hannah  said,  "  You  must  always  re- 
member Judge  Davis,  for  he  is  the  man 
who  made  Abe  Lincoln!" 
And  when  I  said,  "  Why,  I  thought  God 
made  Lincoln,"  they  all  laughed. 
After  a  little  pause  my  inquiring  mind 
caused  me  to  ask,  "  Who  made  Judge 
Davis?"  s^  &^ 

And  Uncle  Elihu  answered,  *'  Abe  Lin- 
coln." 50»  5«» 
Then  they  all  laughed  more  than  ever. 

VOLUNTEERS  were  being  called 
for.  Neighbors  and  neighbors'  boys 
were  enlisting — going  to  the  support  of 
Abe  Lincoln. 

Then  one  day  my  father  went  away, 
too.  Many  of  the  neighbors  went  with 
us  to  the  station  when  he  took  the 
four-o'clock  train,  and  we  all  cried, 
except  mother — she  did  n't  cry  until 
she  got  home.  My  father  had  gone  to 
Springfield  to  enlist  as  a  surgeon.  In 
three  days  he  came  back  and  told  us 
he  had  enlisted,  and  was  to  be  assigned 

4  36  Ii=- 


his  regiment  in  a  week,  and  go  at  once 
to  the  front.  He  was  always  a  kind 
man,  but  during  that  week  when  he 
was  waiting  to  be  told  where  to  go,  he 
was  very  gentle  and  more  kind  than 
ever.  He  told  me  I  must  be  the  man  of 
the  house  while  he  was  away,  and  take 
care  of  my  mother  and  sisters,  and  not 
forget  to  feed  the  chickens  every  morn- 
ing; and  I  promised. 
At  the  end  of  the  week  a  big  envelope 
came  from  Springfield  marked  in  the 
comer,  "  Official." 

My  mother  would  not  open  it,  and  so 
it  lay  on  the  table  until  the  doctor's 
return.  We  all  looked  at  it  curiously, 
and  my  eldest  sister  gazed  on  it  long 
with  lack-luster  eye  and  then  rushed 
from  the  room  with  her  check  apron 
over  her  head. 

When  my  father  rode  up  on  horseback 
I  ran  to  tell  him  that  the  envelope  had 
come  5«»  5«^ 

We  all  stood  breathless  and  watched 
him  break  the  seals. 
He  took  out  the  letter  and   read   it 

■4  37  l!=- 


silently  and  passed  it  to  my  mother  s^ 
I  have  the  letter  before  me  now, 
and  it  says:  "  The  Department  is  still 
of  the  opinion  that  it  does  not  care  to 
accept  men  having  varicose  veins, 
which  make  the  wearing  of  bandages 
necessary.  Your  name,  however,  has 
been  filed  and  should  we  be  able  to  use 
your  services,  will  advise." 
Then  we  were  all  very  glad  about  the 
varicose  veins,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I 
went  out  and  boasted  to  my  playfellows 
about  our  family  possessions. 
It  was  not  so  very  long  after,  that 
there  was  a  Big  Meeting  in  the  "  tim- 
ber." People  came  from  all  over  the 
country  to  attend  it.  The  chief  speaker 
was  a  man  by  the  name  of  Ingersoll,  a 
colonel  in  the  army,  who  was  back 
home  for  just  a  day  or  two  on  furlough. 
People  said  he  was  the  greatest  orator 
in  Peoria  County. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  wagons  began 
to  go  by  our  house,  and  all  along  the 
four  roads  that  led  to  the  grove  we 
could   see   great   clouds  of  dust  that 

••=!l  38  l^" 


stretched  away  for  miles  and  miles  and 
told  that  the  people  were  gathering  by 
the  thousand.  They  came  in  wagons 
and  on  horseback,  and  on  foot  and 
with  ox-teams.  Women  rode  on  horse- 
back carrying  babies;  two  boys  on  one 
horse  were  common  sights;  and  there 
were  various  four-horse  teams  with 
wagons  filled  with  girls  all  dressed  in 
white,  carrying  flags. 
All  our  folks  went.  My  mother  fastened 
the  back  door  of  our  house  with  a  bolt 
on  the  inside,  and  then  locked  the 
front  door  with  a  key,  and  hid  the  key 
under  the  doormat. 

At  the  grove  there  was  much  handshak- 
ing and  visiting  and  asking  after  the 
folks  and  for  the  news.  Several  soldiers 
were  present,  among  them  a  man  who 
lived  near  us,  called  "  Little  Ramsey.'* 
Three  one-armed  men  were  there,  and 
a  man  named  Al  Sweetser,  who  had 
only  one  leg.  These  men  wore  blue, 
and  were  seated  on  the  big  platform 
that  was  all  draped  with  flags.  Plank 
seats  were  arranged,  and  every  plank 

■4  39  l!=- 


held  its  quota.  Just  outside  the  seats 
hundreds  of  men  stood,  and  beyond 
these  were  wagons  filled  with  people. 
Every  tree  in  the  woods  seemed  to 
have  a  horse  tied  to  it,  and  the  trees 
over  the  speakers'  platform  were  black 
with  men  and  boys.  I  never  knew 
before  that  there  were  so  many  horses 
and  people  in  the  world. 
When  the  speaking  began,  the  people 
cheered,  and  then  they  became  very 
quiet,  and  only  the  occasional  squealing 
and  stamping  of  the  horses  could  be 
heard.  Our  preacher  spoke  first,  and 
then  the  lawyer  from  Bloomington, 
and  then  came  the  great  man  from 
Peoria.  The  people  cheered  more  than 
ever  when  he  stood  up,  and  kept 
hurrahing  so  long  I  thought  they  were 
not  going  to  let  him  speak  at  all.  At 
last  they  quieted  down,  and  the  speaker 
began.  His  first  sentence  contained  a 
reference  to  Abe  Lincoln.  The  people 
applauded,  and  some  one  proposed 
three  cheers  for  "  Honest  Old  Abe." 
Everybody  stood  up  and  cheered,  and  I, 

-4  40  l!=- 


perched  on  my  father's  shoulder,  cheer- 
ed too.  And  beneath  the  legend,  "  War- 
ranted Fifty  Pounds,"  my  heart  beat 
proudly.  Silence  came  at  last — a  silence 
filled  only  by  the  neighing  and  stamp- 
ing of  horses  and  the  rapping  of  a 
woodpecker  in  a  tall  tree.  Every  ear 
was  strained  to  catch  the  orator's 
first  words. 

The  speaker  was  just  about  to  begin. 
He  raised  one  hand,  but  ere  his  lips 
moved,  a  hoarse,  guttural  shout  echoed 
through  the  woods,  *'  Hurrah'h'h  for 
Jeff  Davis  !  !  !  " 

"  Kill  that  man!"  rang  a  sharp,  clear 
voice  in  instant  answer. 
A  rumble  like  an  awful  groan  came  from 
the  vast  crowd.  My  father  was  standing 
on  a  seat,  and  I  had  climbed  to  his 
shoulder.  The  crowd  surged  like  a 
monster  animal  toward  a  tall  man 
standing  alone  in  a  wagon.  He  swung  a 
blacksnake  whip  around  him,  and  the 
lash  fell  savagely  on  two  gray  horses. 
At  a  lunge,  the  horses,  the  wagon  and 
the  tall  man  had  cleared  the  crowd, 

•4  41  Ifl- 


knocking  down  several  people  in  their 
flight.  One  man  clung  to  the  tailboard. 
The  whip  wound  with  a  hiss  and  a  crack 
across  his  face,  and  he  fell  stunned  in 
the  roadway. 

A  clear  space  of  fully  three  hundred 
feet  now  separated  the  man  in  the 
wagon  from  the  great  throng,  which  with 
ten  thousand  hands  seemed  ready  to 
tear  him  limb  from  limb.  Revolver  shots 
rang  out,  women  screamed ,  and  trampled 
children  cried  for  help.  Above  it  all  was 
the  roar  of  the  mob.  The  orator,  in 
vain  pantomime,  implored  order. 
I  saw  Little  Ramsey  drop  off  the  limb 
of  a  tree  astride  of  a  horse  that  was 
tied  beneath,  then  lean  over,  and  with 
one  stroke  of  a  knife  sever  the  halter. 
CL  At  the  same  time  fifty  other  men 
seemed  to  have  done  the  same  thing, 
for  flying  horses  shot  out  from  different 
parts  of  the  woods,  all  on  the  instant. 
The  man  in  the  wagon  was  half  a  mile 
away  now,  still  standing  erect.  The 
gray  horses  were  running  low,  with 
noses  and  tails  outstretched. 

-4  42  >• 


The  spread -out  riders  closed  in  a  mass 
and  followed  at  terrific  speed.  The 
crowd  behind  seemed  to  grow  silent. 
We  heard  the  patter-patter  of  barefoot 
horses  ascending  the  long,  low  hill.  One 
rider  on  a  sorrel  horse  fell  behind.  He 
drew  his  horse  to  one  side,  and  sitting 
over  with  one  foot  in  the  long  stirrup, 
plied  the  sorrel  across  the  flank  with 
a  big,  white-felt  hat.  The  horse  respond- 
ed, and  crept  around  to  the  front  of 
the  flying  mass. 

The  wagon  had  disappeared  over  a 
gentle  rise  of  ground,  and  then  we  lost 
the  horsemen,  too.  Still  we  watched, 
and  two  miles  across  the  prairie  we 
got  a  glimpse  of  running  horses  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  into  another  valley 
they  settled,  and  then  we  lost  them  for 
good  5«^  5«» 

The  speaking  began  again  and  went  on 
amid  applause  and  tears,  with  laughter 
set  between. 

I  do  not  remember  what  was  said,  but 
after  the  speaking,  as  we  made  our  way 
homeward,  we  met  Little  Ramsey  and 

■4  43  Ii=" 


the  young  man  who  rode  the  sorrel 
horse.  They  told  us  that  they  caught 
the  Copperhead  after  a  ten-mile  chase, 
and  that  he  was  badly  hurt,  for  the 
wagon  had  upset  and  the  fellow  was 
beneath  it.  Ramsey  asked  my  father 
to  go  at  once  to  see  what  could  be  done 
for  him. 

The  man  was  quite  dead  when  my 
father  reached  him.  There  was  a  purple 
mark  around  his  neck;  and  the  opinion 
seemed  to  be  that  he  had  got  tangled 
up  in  the  harness  or  something. 

THE  war-time  months  went  drag- 
ging by,  and  the  burden  of  gloom 
in  the  air  seemed  to  lift;  for  when  the 
Chicago  Tribune  was  read  each  even- 
ing in  the  post-office  it  told  of  victories 
on  land  and  sea.  Yet  it  was  a  joy  not 
untinged  with  black;  for  in  the  church 
across  from  our  house,  funerals  had 
been  held  for  farmer  boys  who  had  died 
in  prison -pens  and  been  buried  in 
Georgia  trenches. 
One  youth  there  was,  I  remember,  who 

4.  44  l!=- 


had  stopped  to  get  a  drink  at  our 
pump,  and  squirted  a  mouthful  of 
water  over  me  because  I  was  handy  &^ 
One  night  the  postmaster  was  read- 
ing aloud  the  names  of  the  killed  at 
Gettysburg,  and  he  ran  right  on  the 
name  of  this  boy.  The  boy's  father 
sat  there  on  a  nail-keg,  chewing  a 
straw.  The  postmaster  tried  to  shuffle 
over  the  name  and  on  to  the  next. 
"Hi!  Wha— what 's  that  you  said?" 
"  Killed  in  honorable  battle — Snyder, 
Hiram,"  said  the  postmaster  with  a 
forced  calmness,  determined  to  face 
the  issue. 

The  boy's  father  stood  up  with  a  jerk. 
Then  he  sat  down.  Then  he  stood  up 
again  and  staggered  his  way  to  the  door 
and  fumbled  for  the  latch  like  a  blind 
man  5«»  5«» 

"  God  help  him!  he  's  gone  to  tell  the 
old  woman,"  said  the  postmaster  as 
he  blew  his  nose  on  a  red  handkerchief. 
C  The  preacher  preached  a  funeral  ser- 
mon for  the  boy,  and  on  the  little 
pyramid  that  marked  the  family  lot  in 

-4  45  Ii=" 


the  burying-ground  they  carved  the 
inscription :  "  Killed  in  honorable  battle, 
Hiram  Snyder,  aged  nineteen." 
Not  long  after,  strange,  yellow, 
bearded  men  in  faded  blue  began  to 
arrive.  Great  welcomes  were  given 
them;  and  at  the  regular  Wednesday 
evening  prayer-meeting  thanksgivings 
were  poured  out  for  their  safe  return, 
with  names  of  company  and  regiment 
duly  mentioned  for  the  Lord's  better 
identification.  Bees  were  held  for  some 
of  these  returned  farmers,  where  twenty 
teams  and  fifty  men,  old  and  young, 
did  a  season's  farm  work  in  a  day,  and 
split  enough  wood  for  a  year.  At  such 
times  the  women  would  bring  big 
baskets  of  provisions  and  long  tables 
would  be  set,  and  there  were  very  jolly 
times,  with  cracking  of  many  jokes 
that  were  veterans,  and  the  day  would 
end  with  pitching  horseshoes,  and  at 
last  with  singing  *'  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
It  was  at  one  such  gathering  that  a 
ghost  appeared — a  lank,  saffron  ghost, 
ragged  as  a  scarecrow — wearing  a  fool- 

-4  46  l> 


ish  smile  and  the  cape  of  a  cavalryman's 
overcoat  with  no  coat  beneath  it.  The 
apparition  was  a  youth  of  about  twen- 
ty, with  a  downy  beard  all  over  his 
face,  and  countenance  well  mellowed 
with  coal  soot,  as  though  he  had  ridden 
several  days  on  top  of  a  freight-car  that 
was  near  the  engine.  This  ghost  was 
Hiram  Snyder. 

All  forgave  him  the  shock  of  surprise 
he  caused  us — all  except  the  minister 
who  had  preached  his  funeral  sermon. 
Years  after  I  heard  this  minister 
remark  in  a  solemn,  grieved  tone: 
**  Hiram  Snyder  is  a  man  who  can  not 
be  relied  on." 

AS  the  years  pass,  the  miracle  of  the 
L  seasons  means  less  to  us.  But  what 
country  boy  can  forget  the  turning  of 
the  leaves  from  green  to  gold,  and  the 
watchings  and  waitings  for  the  first 
hard  frost  that  ushers  in  the  nutting 
season !  And  then  the  first  fall  of  snow, 
with  its  promise  of  skates  and  sleds  and 
tracks  of  rabbits,  and  mayhap  bears, 

■4  47  IJ=- 


and  strange  animals  that  only  come 
out  at  night,  and  that  no  human  eye 
has  ever  seen! 

Beautiful  are  the  seasons;  and  glad  I 
am  that  I  have  not  yet  quite  lost  my 
love  for  each.  But  now  they  parade 
past  with  a  curious  swiftness!  They 
look  at  m^e  out  of  wistful  eyes,  and 
sometimes  one  calls  to  me  as  she  goes 
by  and  asks,  "  Why  have  you  done  so 
little  since  I  saw  you  last?"  And  I  can 
only  answer,  *'  I  was  thinking  of  you." 
€L  I  do  not  need  another  incarnation 
to  live  my  life  over  again.  I  can  do  that 
now,  and  the  resurrection  of  the  past, 
through  memory,  that  sees  through 
closed  eyes,  is  just  as  satisfactory  as 
the  thing  itself. 

Were  we  talking  of  the  seasons?  Very 
well,  dearie,  the  seasons  it  shall  be. 
They  are  all  charming,  but  if  I  were  to 
wed  any  it  would  be  Spring.  Kow  well 
I  remember  the  gentle  perfume  of  her 
comings,  and  her  warm,  languid  breath! 
C[  There  was  a  time  when  I  would  go 
out  of  the  house  some  morning,  and 

4  48  Ip- 


the  snow  would  be  melting,  and  Spring 
would  kiss  my  cheek,  and  then  I  would 
be  all  aglow  with  joy  and  would  burst 
into  the  house,  and  cry:  **  Spring  is 
here !  Spring  is  here !  "  For  you  know  we 
always  have  to  divide  our  joy  with 
some  one.  One  can  bear  grief,  but  it 
takes  two  to  be  glad. 
And  then  my  mother  would  smile  and 
say,  "  Yes,  my  son,  but  do  not  wake 
the  baby!" 

Then  I  would  go  out  and  watch  the 
snow  turn  to  water,  and  rim  down  the 
road  in  little  rivulets  to  the  creek,  that 
would  swell  until  it  became  a  regular 
Mississippi,  so  that  when  we  waded 
the  horse  across,  the  water  would  come 
to  the  saddlegirth. 

Then  once,  I  remember,  the  bridge  was 
washed  away,  and  all  the  teams  had 
to  go  around  and  through  the  water, 
and  some  used  to  get  stuck  in  the  mud 
on  the  other  bank.  It  was  great  fun! 
€1  The  first  *'  Spring  beauties  "  bloom- 
ed very  early  that  year;  violets  came 
out  on  the  South  side  of  rotting  logs, 

■4  49  >• 


and  cowslips  blossomed  in  the  slough 
as  they  never  had  done  before.  Over  on 
the  knoll,  prairie-chickens  strutted  pom- 
pously and  proudly  drummed. 
The  war  was  over!  Lincoln  had  won, 
and  the  country  was  safe ! 
The  jubilee   was   infectious,   and   the 
neighbors  who  used  to  come  and  visit 
us  would  tell  of  the  men  and  boys  who 
would  soon  be  back. 
The  war  was  over ! 

My  father  and  mother  talked  of  it 
across  the  table,  and  the  men  talked 
of  it  at  the  store,  and  earth,  sky,  and 
water  called  to  each  other  in  glad  re- 
lief, "  The  war  is  over ! "  But  there  came 
a  morning  when  my  father  walked  up 
from  the  railroad -station  very  fast, 
and  looking  very  serious.  He  pushed 
right  past  me  as  I  sat  in  the  doorway.  I 
followed  him  into  the  kitchen  where 
my  mother  was  washing  dishes,  and  I 
heard  him  say,"  They  have  killed  Lin- 
coln!" and  then  he  burst  into  tears. 
C  I  had  never  before  seen  my  father 
shed  tears — in  fact,  I  had  never  seen 

■4  50  }fl- 


a  man  cry.  There  is  something  terrible 
in  the  grief  of  a  man. 
Soon  the  church-bell  across  the  road 
began  to  toll.  It  tolled  all  that  day.  Three 
men — I  can  give  you  their  names — 
rang  the  bell  all  day  long,  tolling, 
slowly  tolling,  tolling  until  night  came 
and  the  stars  came  out.  I  thought  it  a 
little  curious  that  the  stars  should  come 
out,  for  Lincoln  was  dead;  but  they 
did,  for  I  saw  them  as  I  trotted  by  my 
father's  side  down  to  the  post-office  s^ 
There  was  a  great  crowd  of  men 
there.  At  the  long  line  of  peeled- 
hickory  hitching-poles  were  dozens  of 
saddle-horses.  The  farmers  had  come 
for  miles  to  get  details  of  the  news. 
On  the  long  counters  that  ran  down 
each  side  of  the  store  men  were  seated, 
swinging  their  feet,  and  listening  in- 
tently to  some  one  who  was  reading 
aloud  from  a  newspaper.  We  worked 
our  way  past  the  men  who  were  stand- 
ing about,  and  with  several  of  these  my 
father  shook  hands  solemnly. 
Leaning    against    the    wall    near    the 

•4  51  >• 


window  was  a  big,  red-faced  man, 
whom  I  knew  as  a  Copperhead.  He  had 
been  drinking,  evidently,  for  he  was 
making  boozy  efforts  to  stand  very 
straight.  There  were  only  heard  a 
subdued  buzz  of  whispers  and  the 
monotonous  voice  of  the  reader,  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  center,  his  newspaper 
in  one  hand  and  a  lighted  candle  in  the 
other  5^  5«^ 

The  red -faced  man  lurched  two  steps 
forward,  and  in  a  loud  voice  said, 
"  L — L — Lincoln  is  dead — an'  I  'm 
damn  glad  of  it!" 

Across  the  room  I  saw  two  men  strug- 
gling with  Little  Ramsey.  Why  they 
should  struggle  with  him  I  could  not 
imagine,  but  ere  I  could  think  the 
matter  out,  I  saw  him  shake  himself 
loose  from  the  strong  hands  that 
sought  to  hold  him.  He  sprang  upon  the 
counter,  and  in  one  hand  I  saw  he  held 
a  scale-weight.  Just  an  instant  he  stood 
there,  and  then  the  weight  shot  straight 
at  the  red -faced  man.  The  missile 
glanced    on    his    shoulder    and    shot 

-4  52  J=' 


through  the  window.  In  another  second 
the  red -faced  man  plunged  through 
the  window,  taking  the  entire  sash 
with  him. 

**  You  '11  have  to  pay  for  that  win- 
dow!" called  the  alarmed  postmaster 
out  into  the  night. 

The  store  was  quickly  emptied,  and  on 
following  outside  no  trace  of  the  red- 
faced  man  could  be  found.  The  earth 
had  swallowed  both  the  man  and  the 
five-poimd  scale-weight. 
After  some  minutes  had  passed  in  a 
vain  search  for  the  weight  and  the 
Copperhead,  we  went  back  into  the 
store  and  the  reading  was  continued  5«» 
But  the  interruption  had  relieved 
the  tension,  and  for  the  first  time  that 
day  men  in  that  post-office  joked  and 
laughed.  It  even  lifted  from  my  heart 
the  gloom  that  threatened  to  smother 
me,  and  I  went  home  and  told  the 
story  to  my  mother  and  sisters,  and 
they  too  smiled,  so  closely  akin  are 
tears  and  smiles. 

-4  53  J=- 


THE  story  of  Lincoln's  life  had  been 
ingrained  into  me  long  before  I 
ever  read  a  book.  For  the  people  who 
knew  Lincoln,  and  the  people  who 
knew  the  people  that  Lincoln  knew, 
were  the  only  people  I  knew.  I  visited 
at  their  houses  and  heard  them  tell 
what  Lincoln  had  said  when  he  sat  at 
table  where  I  then  sat.  I  listened  long 
to  Lincoln  stories,  "  and  that  reminds 
me  "  was  often  on  the  lips  of  those  I 
loved.  All  the  tales  told  by  the  faithful 
Herndon  and  the  needlessly  loyal  Nic- 
olay  and  Hay  were  current  coin,  and 
the  rehearsal  of  the  Lincoln-Douglas 
debate  was  commonplace. 
When  our  own  poverty  was  mentioned, 
we  compared  it  with  the  poverty  that 
Lincoln  had  endured,  and  felt  rich.  I 
slept  in  a  garret  where  the  Winter's 
snow  used  to  sift  merrily  through  the 
slab  shingles,  but  then  I  was  covered 
with  warm  buffalo  robes,  and  a  loving 
mother  tucked  me  in  and  on  my  fore- 
head imprinted  a  good -night  kiss.  But 
Lincoln  at  the  same  age  had  no  mother 

-4  54  >• 


and  lived  in  a  hut  that  had  neither 
windows,  doors  nor  floor,  and  a  pile 
of  leaves  and  straw  in  the  corner  was 
his  bed.  Our  house  had  two  rooms,  but 
one  Winter  the  Lincoln  home  was 
only  a  shed  enclosed  on  three  sides. 
I  knew  of  his  being  a  clerk  in  a  country- 
store  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  that  up 
to  that  time  he  had  read  but  four 
books;  of  his  running  a  flatboat,  split- 
ting rails,  and  pouring  at  night  over  a 
dog-eared  lawbook;  of  his  asking  to 
sleep  in  the  law-office  of  Joshua  Speed, 
and  of  Speed's  giving  him  permission 
to  move  in.  And  of  his  going  away  after 
his  "  worldly  goods  "  and  coming  back 
in  ten  minutes  carrying  an  old  pair  of 
saddle-bags  which  he  threw  into  a 
comer  saying,  "Speed,  I  've  moved!" 
H  I  knew  of  his  twenty  years  of 
country  law-practise,  when  he  was  con- 
sidered just  about  as  good  and  no  better 
than  a  dozen  others  on  that  circuit, 
and  of  his  making  a  bare  living  during 
the  time.  Then  I  knew  of  his  gradually 
awakening  to  the  wrong  of  slavery,  of 

4.  55  >• 


the  expansion  of  his  mind,  so  that  he 
began  to  incur  the  jealousy  of  rivals 
and  the  hatred  of  enemies,  and  of  the 
prophetic  feeling  in  that  slow  but  sure 
mind  that  **  a  house  divided  against 
itself  can  not  stand.  I  believe  this 
Government  can  not  endure  perma- 
nently half -slave  and  half-free." 
I  knew  of  the  debates  with  Douglas  and 
the  national  attention  they  attracted, 
and  of  Judge  Davis'  remark,  "  Lincoln 
has  more  commonsense  than  any  other 
man  in  America;"  and  then,  chiefly 
through  Judge  Davis'  influence,  of  his 
being  nominated  for  President  at  the 
Chicago  Convention.  I  knew  of  his 
election,  and  the  coming  of  the  war,  and 
the  long,  hard  fight,  when  friends  and 
foes  beset,  and  none  but  he  had  the 
patience  and  the  courage  that  could 
wait.  And  then  I  knew  of  his  death, 
that  death  which  then  seemed  a  ca- 
lamity— terrible  in  its  awful  blackness. 
C  But  now  the  years  have  passed,  and 
I  comprehend  somewhat  of  the  paradox 
of  things,  and  I  know  that  his  death 


was  just  what  he  might  have  prayed 
for.  It  was  a  fitting  close  for  a  life  that 
had  done  a  supreme  and  mighty  work. 
€[  His  face  foretold  the  end. 
Lincoln  had  no  home  ties.  In  that 
plain,  frame  house,  without  embellished 
yard  or  ornament,  where  I  have  been 
so  often,  there  was  no  love  that  held 
him  fast.  In  that  house  there  was  no 
library,  but  in  the  parlor,  where  six 
haircloth  chairs  and  a  slippery  sofa  to 
match  stood  guard,  was  a  marble 
table  on  which  were  various  gift-books 
in  blue  and  gilt.  He  only  turned  to 
that  home  when  there  was  no  other 
place  to  go.  Politics,  with  its  attendant 
travel  and  excitement,  allowed  him  to 
forget  the  what-might-have-beens  s^ 
Foolish  bickering,  silly  pride,  and  stu- 
pid misunderstanding  pushed  him  out 
upon  the  streets  and  he  sought  to  lose 
himself  among  the  people.  And  to  the 
people  at  length  he  gave  his  time,  his 
talents,  his  love,  his  life.  Fate  took 
from  him  his  home  that  the  country 
might  call  him  savior.   Dire  tragedy 


was  a  fitting  end ;  for  only  the  souls  who 
have  suffered  are  well-loved. 
Jealousy,  disparagement,  calumny,  have 
all  made  way,  and  North  and  South 
alike  revere  his  name. 
The  memory  of  his  gentleness,  his 
patience,  his  firm  faith,  and  his  great 
and  loving  heart  are  the  priceless  her- 
itage of  a  united  land.  He  had  charity 
for  all,  malice  toward  none;  he  gave 
affection,  and  affection  is  his  reward. 
Honor  and  love  are  his. 


-<  58  J=- 


V  9|r  «|^r  «^  9^  «^  9^  9^  «^  «^  9^  9^  9^  «^ -^ 

Gettysburg  Address 

PURSCORE  and  seven  years 
ago  our  fathers  brought  forth 
on  this  continent  a  new  nation 
conceived  in  liberty  and  dedi- 
cated to  the  proposition  that  all  men 
are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged 
in  a  great  civil  war  testing  whether 
that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived 
and  so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We 
are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that 
war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  por- 
tion of  that  field  as  a  final  resting 
place  for  those  who  here  gave  their 
lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is 
altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we 
should  do  this.  But,  in  a  larger  sense, 
we  can  not  dedicate,  we  can  not  con- 
secrate, we  can  not  hallow  this  ground. 
€L  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead, 
who  struggled  here  have  consecrated  it 
far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or 

-5il  59  > 


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the  thought 

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influences  all  the 

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He  has  made 

his  impress 

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eternitsr 

—Elbert  Hubbard 


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